


Straight Guys Don't Wear Tights

by LieutenantSaavik



Series: Natasha in D.C. [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Bisexual Steve Rogers, M/M, Pansexual Sam Wilson, Post CA: TWS, Real-World Locations, lesbian natasha romanoff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-05
Updated: 2017-02-24
Packaged: 2018-09-22 03:02:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9579584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LieutenantSaavik/pseuds/LieutenantSaavik
Summary: “Well, I now realize I’ve been only using a fraction of my abilities,” Natasha observes. “All this time I was trying to set you up with only girls when I could have been setting you up with girls AND guys.”“Wait,” says Steve, turning to Natasha quickly. “You weren’t trying to set me up with your exes, were you?”





	1. Straight Guys Don't Wear Tights

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sororising](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sororising/gifts).



“I thought you were leaving,” says Steve, smiling at his friend across the table. Natasha gives the small, joy-laced huff of air of someone who attachment has snuck up on. There’s a beat of silence.

“You like it here,” he guesses.

Natasha shakes her head, but she’s smiling. “It’s nice.”

“Peaceful, huh?”

“Yeah. It’s a good city. I threw mud on the Trump sign someone had in their yard. Very cathartic.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t burn it down.”

“Had an audience.”

“Ah.”

Natasha stirs her cappuccino with her straw, purposefully swirling the white creamy pattern on top into the same brown nothingness as the rest of the drink. “I thought you were leaving, too.”

“Turns out,” Steve says, “Capitol Hill isn’t going to let me stay anywhere long until I testify about the helicarrier battle at least seven times.” He shakes his head. “I already told them everything I want to.”

“The government’s a mess. Always is. Maybe they’re trying to see if your lies corroborate.”

“You’re very paranoid.”

“I know.”

Steve sits back in his chair, continuing to ignore his coffee. “Who knew saving the world meant this much bureaucracy?”

“I did.” Natasha’s eyes are suddenly flat. “You’ll notice a trend of people caring more about public image than actually helping the world around them.” She pauses, and the corners of her eyes soften slightly. “You’re not like that, Rogers. That’s why I like you.”

“Thanks.”

“Though I admit the whole red-white-and-blue striped catsuit kind of threw me off for a while.”

“Yeah? Well, me too.”

Natasha nods, takes a sip of her drink, and winces at the heat. “Nobody drinks it this hot,” she snaps, irritated. “Why serve it this-”

Steve’s already slurping his down, an eyebrow raised, and Natasha rolls her eyes. “Goddammit, Rogers.”

“What?” he asks, all innocence.

Natasha scoffs. “Well, your body’s basically a furnace anyway, I hear.” She takes a sip of her coffee just to prove she can, setting it back down perfectly on its saucer. “Well, my taste buds have been burnt off.”

“You seem remarkably blasé about that.”

“Tu es le pire.”

Natasha stirs her coffee further. “You know,” Steve remarks, “if you’re intending to butcher the pattern on top, I think you’ve already succeeded.”

“Steve,” Natasha says calmly, “do you want me to throw this in your face? I won’t hesitate.”

“Well, I have no desire to become the Red Skull, so no.”

Natasha gives a tiny smile and takes another sip.

“So, tell me the epic tale of how Natasha Romanoff fell in love with Washington, D.C.”

Natasha’s puffed exhale returns, coupled with her skewed smile. “It’s nice,” she repeats. She looks off to the side, sunlight falling across the side of her face and highlighting sadness across the left side of it. “I can keep an eye on the government and still stay undercover. Tactical benefits.”

“So you’re not going to go gallivanting across the world again?”

“I am,” Natasha replies, somewhat distantly. “Not yet.”

She looks down into her cappuccino. “Called Sharon yet?”

Steve shakes his head. “No.”

“Not ready for a relationship, or?”

“Well, the person I thought I knew is actually an undercover agent, so it takes takes some getting used to.” He raises a very pointed eyebrow at Natasha.

“Well,” Natasha says breezily, “if you wanted perfect clarity, there’s a chance you might be in-”

“The wrong business. Yeah. Maybe so.” Steve glances down at his hands and then off to the side, and as Natasha watches, there’s a subtle slipping to his face. She knows the subtle sign well; it’s the failure of an emotional mask, the type you wear when you’ve compartmentalised your mind so as not to think of something so huge it overtakes your mind altogether.

“You’re thinking about Barnes,” Natasha guesses.

“Sam is late,” Steve says instead.

Natasha nods and pulls her phone from her jacket pocket, calling him up. Steve notices she has him on speed dial.

“When are you going to be here?” she asks without preamble.

Steve distantly hears the response. “There’s traffic all down Pennsylvania Avenue.”

“Yeah, well, what else is new? Just fly over.”

There’s laughter. “I would if I could. I’ll be there soon, okay?”

“Looking forward to seeing you.” She hangs up with a smile.

“Oho,” teases Steve, as soon as her phone is returned to her pocket. “Does someone have a crush?”

Natasha turns back to him, her jaw set and her green eyes flat. “Steve, I’m lesbian.”

 

There’s a beat of silence. Natasha stares at him levelly.

“Oh,” says Steve awkwardly. He half-shakes his head, opens his mouth slightly, and closes it. “Uh, okay.”

Natasha takes a big sip of her coffee. “Shocking, I know.”

“Well, I’m, uh, bisexual.”

Natasha blinks, taken-aback. “Really?”

“I mean, that’s the modern-day term for it. The boys back home would have called me something much less nice.”

“I’d imagine.” Natasha finishes her drink. She notes that by ‘home,’ he was referring to the 40s, and looks at her friend with a tinge of sadness. “So the 40s is still home for you?”

Steve shrugs with a crooked smile, realizing what he said. “Guess so.”

“You’re still thinking about Bucky.".

“I have to look for him.”

“Steve,” says Natasha gently, “Think about this. He pulled you from the water onto Roosevelt Island and left. The whole world is hunting for him. I don’t think…. Steve, maybe he doesn’t want to be found.”

Steve inhales deeply, but he’s rescued from saying anything by the sudden appearance of Sam dropping down into the third chair at their table. “My god,” he mutters, disgusted. “It’s Saturday. The amount of traffic is _insane_.”

“I guess once you’ve flown, driving like a normal person is going to feel a little slow,” Steve observes dryly.

“A standstill,” says Sam flatly.  “A standstill out there.”

“That is… bad,” Steve says lamely.

“Damn right, brother.” Sam turns to Natasha. “How you doing?”

“Well, I just came out to a man born in the 1918 that I was gay, and it went surprisingly well.” She smiles across at Sam and laces her fingers together.

“I’m bisexual,” Steve adds quickly.

“Well, _obviously_ ,” Sam replies, turning back to Steve and elbowing him. “What straight guy is gonna wear tights?”

Natasha claps both hands over her mouth and grins.

“You knew?” Steve asks Sam incredulously.

“Steve.” Sam lays a hand on his shoulder. “Everyone can tell that when you say ‘friend,’ you mean something else. You practically killed yourself chasing after Barnes up there. That’s some next-level Romeo and Juliet shit right there.” He pauses. “Romeo and Juliet both died. Never mind.”

“Well, I now realize I’ve been only using a fraction of my abilities,” Natasha observes. “All this time I was trying to set you up with only girls when I could have been setting you up with girls _and_ guys.”

“Wait,” says Steve, turning to Natasha quickly. “You weren’t trying to set me up with your exes, were you?”

“Um,” says Natasha.

“You’re unbelievable.”

It’s Sam’s turn to break into buoyant laughter. “Well, I’m pan,” he says, “so if there’s anyone else you want to try your matchmaking skills on…”

Natasha looks at him and nods slowly, already thinking. “Will do.”

“But,” says Sam firmly, “if either of you make a joke about fucking kitchenware, I’m chucking you into the Potomac myself. Only _I_ get to make those jokes.”

Steve’s vaguely confused. “Why would I make a joke about… Oh. _Pan_ sexual. Pansexual! I ge-”

“Man, shut the hell up.”

Natasha smirks, but there’s already something less happy playing at the edges of her lips. “You two are adorable, but I have to be going.”

“I just got here!” Sam complains.

“Where are you going?” Steve asks.

Natasha’s already standing, her purse over her shoulder. “Out.”

“Out as in out of the closet?” Sam queries.

“Good one.” Natasha gives the two men a smile, reshouldering her purse. “Take care of yourselves, now. It might be a while before I see the two of you again.”

“So you’re disappearing, huh?”

Natasha's eyes flick across Steve's face. “Until we have to testify."

"And after that?"

"I’ll be around if you need me. Oh, and Sam?”

“Yeah?”

“That cute girl at the DVA -- Vivian, right? -- I fucked her last night.”

Sam stands. “You didn’t.”

Natasha laughs up to the ceiling. “I didn’t. But I might.”

With a tiny wave, she turns and leaves, passing out through the single glass door and onto the sunlight, traffic-choked street.

“Straight guys don’t wear tights, huh?” Steve asks Sam, after a couple moments of silence.

“They don’t wear wings, either.” Sam replies with a grin.


	2. Straight Gals Don’t Found Covert Government Organisations

**** Natasha leaves the restaurant, heading southward and hailing a taxi to take her through the National Mall and out of the heart of the city. It takes a full half-hour; the traffic is every bit as bad as Sam had said it was. Natasha doesn’t like sitting still for long periods of time (and she certainly doesn’t like sitting in cars with strangers), but it’s not the car that’s making her nervous. It’s the fact that she’s finally going to meet Agent Carter, the legendary founder of S.H.I.E.L.D.

“Who’s the girl?” she’d asked Steve, outside Zola’s bunker. She’d known it was Carter -- how could she not, as an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. -- but she wanted to see Steve’s reaction, see what he said about her. And his silence told her everything she’d wondered.

Ask for an answer you already know and what you get is infinitely more valuable than a fact -- you get a personality. It’s an old trick, and very versatile, and it told her that Steve -- that he and Peggy were close. The thought of it made her pity him. Because if your heart belongs in the past, no place can be home to you.

And then she thinks of Bucky Barnes and leans her head sideways against the taxi window, fingering the scar on her stomach through the fabric of her shirt. She thinks of the exhibit on Captain America in the Smithsonian Museum of Earth and Space and the grainy, black-and-white video, how he and Steve smiled at each other with whole shining suns in their gazes, and she knows that Steve’s heart lived not just in Peggy but in Bucky as well -- two people, two sets of warm and loving eyes. 

For a moment, she imagines a life like a thread, tied to thousands of others, connected through years, across decades, thickening, twisting, pulled sideways and under and cut. And then the threads turn red and the web becomes a spider’s, and she blinks the thought away.

 

She’s at the Stoddard Home before she knows it. She thanks the driver, tips him, and walks away, only slowing when she hears the car pull away behind her.

_ It’s a sort of gated compound of apartments _ , Natasha notes, looking around as she stands outside the nursing home.  _ Trying to resemble a home. _

“Hello, miss,” says a man with a Southern accent, leaning out of the window in the small building next to the gate. “Who are you here to see?”

“Margaret Carter.” Carter reminds her of Sharon and the fact that she’s related to Peggy, but she shoves the thoughts firmly out of her head; they have no place here.  _ Oh my god; what if she thinks I’m Sharon? No. No. _

“And your name is?”

“Natalie Rushman.” Her voice is steady, convincing, even to her own ears.

He nods and pulls down a phone, calling the front desk inside to confirm. After a moment, he nods and puts the phone down, pushing a button to open the gate and giving her a smile.

Natasha smiles back and walks through, making her way across the asphalt next to a small fountain and some manicured gardens. As she pushes open the doors into the entrance hall, she pulls on the end of her jacket. She’s worried her clothes are too tight, too modern, that her hair’s too messy. She’s about to meet the founder of S.H.I.E.L.D. in the flesh, and nothing can possibly be good enough.

“Hello, miss,” says the young woman at the front desk, jolting her a little. “You’re Nancy Rushman, here to see Margaret Carter?”

“Yes on both counts, ma’am.”

The woman smiles. “Third floor, room 312. The elevator is down the hall. She might be napping at this time of day, though.”

“Noted. Thank you.” Natasha nods efficiently and heads down the blue-carpeted hallway to the elevators. She forgoes them, though, opting for the stairs to the left. The higher-up she climbs, the more nervous she becomes, until she is taking the stairs slowly. The walk down the hallway to Room 312 is even more nerve-wracking, but Natasha forces her shoulders back, her chin up, and her stance open, proving to herself that she can remain calm. She reaches the door, eases it open, and steps quietly inside.

“Hello,” the old woman in the bed says kindly, as soon as Natasha comes in.

Natasha just blinks for a moment, taking in the sight of Peggy Carter lying under the covers of her bed.  _ She’s so old _ , is her first thought. She had known -- of course she had  _ known _ \-- but  _ seeing _ her, wrinkled and aged, is still shocking. She stands there for a moment, quiet, and her hands find each other and twist.

“Cat got your tongue?” Peggy asks, her British accent curving her words delicately. She smiles. “They told me a Natalie Rushman was coming to see me. Is that you?”

“Yes,” says Natasha. “My name is Natasha, though, actually.”

Peggy looks like she’s trying to remember something but can’t quite get at it. Frustrated, she gives a tiny sigh. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Rushman.”

Natasha nods back, hating herself for being so awkward but not knowing what to do. She slowly makes her way over to Peggy when she indicates Natasha should sit next to her.

“What brings you here today?” Peggy searches Natasha’s face with her eyes.

“I wanted to meet the founder of S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Natasha answers. “Truthfully-” her voice stops. “Truthfully, I’m shocked I get to finally meet you.”

Peggy gives her a weak, reserved smile. “I’m nothing special, Miss Natasha.”

Natasha shakes her head, denying it the second it’s out of Agent Carter’s mouth. “You’re a bit of a hero of mine, really,” she confesses, smiling back and tilting her head sideways. She’s trying to gauge whether it’s a good day or a bad one for Carter, who she knows has Alzheimer's.

“Am I really?” Peggy shifts in her pillows and coughs a little into her shoulder. “Why me?”

“Well,” says Natasha, deciding it must be a good day for her, “I used to be in a place called the Red Room.” She knows she should wait to see if she should continue, but the words trip out of her mouth anyway. “And then Clint Barton, an Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. -- helped me rescue myself. S.H.I.E.L.D. was -- it was a way for me to finally do something good in the world. I even joined the Avengers -- I met Steve. And now, here I am.” 

Peggy looks slightly confused, and her hands twitch, as if she’s trying to clasp onto something. “Red Room?” she asks in her withered voice, ignoring everything past it. Natasha slowly reaches into her pocket and pulls out a red square of fabric with two attached gold wings embroidered into it. She doesn’t know if it will spark a recollection, but she figures she should try.

Peggy takes it from her with shaking fingers and looks it over, turning it all ways before handing it back to Natasha. Natasha thinks she doesn’t recognise it, until she speaks. “You poor child,” she says, her voice breaking. “Oh, you poor thing.”

Natasha looks at the place where the wall meets the floor. “I’m better now.”

Peggy reaches out a tired hand and places it on Natasha’s face, right across her cheekbone. Her lips tremble, and Natasha thinks she’s going to say something, but she just keeps her hand there for a few more seconds before removing it and placing it gently on top of her other hand, where she starts fingering her wedding ring.

“I knew her, you know. Ida Emke. Dottie Underwood,” says Natasha suddenly, wanting to get it off her chest. 

Peggy stills and takes a shuddering breath. “Dottie.”

Natasha nods. “She helped train me. She’s dead now.”

Peggy’s eyes again find Natasha’s face. Natasha can’t meet her gaze. “That’s how I first heard about you. Through her.”

“What did she say,” Peggy croaks. She clears her throat and pushes herself upright with trembling, age-spotted hands, settling herself on her pillows and blinking at the Black Widow with surprisingly vigilant eyes. When her voice returns, it’s clearer. “What did she say about me?” There’s a hint of a smile at her wrinkled lips.

Natasha pushes her hair behind her ears and thinks back to the icy stillness of the cold blue rooms and piano notes that hit the ear like tiny needles. Reflexively, her leg muscles tighten and her toes twitch toward a point, as if any minute Madame G. will order her to dance.

“She hated you,” Natasha says finally, after waiting for her heartbeat to slow. “And I think she admired you, too.”

Peggy laughs, a sound that rips as it pulls itself out of her throat. It tears off and ends in ribbons on the covers of the bed and lie there, soaking in like water or something thicker. “And I her, I suppose.” She looks over toward her bedside table, where pill bottles poke up amongst framed, ancient photographs of a life that’s been irrevocably changed. “It’s been so long since…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, but she doesn’t have to. Sighing, she pushes herself back into the pillows and clasps her hands together across the covers of her bed, looking up at Natasha again. “How did she die? I always… wondered about her. I think she loved me, in some obsessive way. And I her, perhaps. Something small.”

Natasha blinks. “She was,” she says. “In love with you, I mean. Once.”

Peggy hums for a moment, until the note cracks and dissolves into a phlegmy cough. “How did she die?” she repeats.

Natasha doesn’t want to tell her, because then the memory would chain itself again to her brain. “She got too old,” she says mechanically. “Her own pupils had to kill her. She wanted them to.”

“That’s a fitting way for her to have gone,” Peggy says, after a long, still silence. Her old voice trembles over the words. “I sometimes imagined someone would have taken her prisoner again. Or perhaps that she never went back. I never found her after, so I wondered if… oh, no.” She closes her eyes, and Natasha worries that when she opens them, she’ll have forgotten again. But when Peggy blinks back up at her, and there’s still lucidity in her gaze. “You didn’t.”

“I didn’t what?”

“Go back. To,” Peggy coughs some mucus out of the back of her throat, “to Leviathan.”

“The Red Room,” Natasha corrects gently. She sits back in her chair. “No, I didn’t.”

“And why is that?” Peggy’s gaze is surprisingly shrewd.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re like Steve,” says Peggy, twining her fingers together, lacing them and unlacing them atop the bedsheets. “You had something the others didn’t. That’s why he was chosen for Erskine’s program. That’s why Agent Barton saved you.”

Natasha gives a huffed laugh and shakes her head. “I’m not -- no. I just got lucky.”

“That’s exactly what Steve thought, but he was wrong.” Peggy turns to the side. “Here, help me up.” She starts to sit up, and Natasha, after a moment of panic, takes her gently under the arms and guides her to a sitting position on her bed. Peggy folds her legs, adjusts her skirt, and lifts her chin so she and Natasha are face-to-face. “What’s your name?” she asks.

“Natasha Romanoff,” says Natasha, her heart sinking.

Peggy blinks. Her eyes are still bright, but confusion laces the edges. “You’re with S.H.I.E.L.D., aren’t you?”

Natasha doesn’t have the heart to tell her that S.H.I.E.L.D. fell with the flaming ruins of Project Insight. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Good,” says Peggy, distractedly. “Where’s Steve?”

“He’s out with his friend Sam in the city.”

“His friend Sam,” Peggy echoes. She swallows and looks down at the fabric of her dress, taking it in her frail hand and pulling at it. “I don’t remember Sam. Where is Bucky? Is he alive?”

Natasha’s breath catches in her throat. “He’s alive,” she says, and she thinks of the many times people must have said that to Peggy. This time, for the first time, it’s true. “I don’t know where.”

“Why did you dye your hair, Sharon?” asks Peggy suddenly, taking a strand of Natasha’s hair in her fingers. “It looks lovely.”

Natasha stiffens, pulls back, and jerks her purse into her hands. “I -- uh. I’m not Sharon.” She swallows. “I have to go.”

Peggy shakes her head, her dark eyes shifting back and forth. “You only just got here, darling.”

Natasha stands and re-loops her purse over her shoulder. She gives Carter a tight smile and takes a few steps towards the door. But Peggy’s faint voice stops her, and she turns.

“Wait.”

Natasha shifts her weight.

“Stay with your friends,” says Peggy faintly, rocking back and forth. “Stay with them, Sharon.”

Natasha’s eyes flick toward the floor and she nods. “I will.”

She takes one more step. “Agent Carter?”

“Yes?”

“Thank you.”

“For what?”   
  
“For…”  _ For giving me a second chance _ , she wants to say.  _ For founding the organization that changed me from Agent Romanova into Agent Romanoff. For giving me the way to atone for what I’ve done and to try to make a difference.  _ “For S.H.I.E.L.D.”

“Thank  _ you _ ,” says Peggy, with a tenuous breath of air, “for joining it.”

Natasha drops her eyes to the floor. “Have a good day, Agent Carter.”

Peggy makes no more responses, so Natasha walks out the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was so much complication in Natasha's face at Peggy's funeral that I knew the reason she went couldn't just be so Steve didn't have to go alone. I'm sure Natasha would have so much respect for Peggy, and I hope this interaction here is true to both of them.
> 
> This is the symbol for the Red Room Academy, taken from Agent Carter (sorry for the low-res screencap!):  
> 


End file.
